Our journey to the fractured United Kingdom (fUK), the Final Frontier.
These are the voyages of the Flying-Brick ‘Gnome’. Its continuing mission: to explore our world, to seek out my kids and to hug them, to boldly go where no gnome has gone before...
Foreword
If you've come here to escape the viral madness, then you will be sorely disappointed. This virus has invaded every part of our lives and thus also insinuated itself into every part of this story.
We, in France, are once again in lockdown.
For the next thirty days of confinement, I will attempt to post something every day, be it a photo, some words of wisdom, or a combination of the two. I'll try, but will probably fail on the wisdom bit...
During the last lockdown, now far into the distant past, I posted each day a photo of some random flower, insect, garden scene (blog here and photos Month 1 Month 2 Month 3). After calls from you all to be silent, to desist, to shuffle off, and the occasional "Aarrgggghhhh!" I've decided to change my approach.
This is to be the story of our last trip of the year in the Gnome, an adventure full of the complete gamut of emotions, of highs and of the deepest of lows.
Our voyage there and back again...
We are where we are, and we are here...
A distant fog submerges Montauban. A fog that stifles, that engulfs. It is a fog of facts and of fake news, a fog of information and of disinformation, a fog of danger with no safe place. At its heart is Covid. How do we calculate our route through all of this thick soup of fact and fiction?
There is no simple solution, there is no path to take that will be one hundred percent safe. All we do has risk and consequences, but how do we balance that against survival, against love, against a normal life, against living long enough to sup another glass of wine?
There is no more a 'normal' life. Thankfully there remain several sups of wine...
And so these were the questions we asked of ourselves whilst planning our odyssey into the plague.
Do we go or do we stay? How do we get there? How do we get back? How do we calculate the risks when the risks are constantly changing? How do we protect those that we are holden to shelter from harm? How many bottles of wine do we take?
When we originally planned this trip, this adventure, this odyssey, there was no doubt. It had been many months since seeing our close family in the UK. Too many months due to this pestilence. All we had to do was go there, visit each house which were each self-isolating, share our love, then bugger off back to France.
Simple.
And yet, simple was the last thing that it turned out to be; simple it was not. Nothing went according to plan. This was a voyage into chaos, an adventure full of unforeseen risk and was fraught from the very start.
This is our story...
Chapter 1. Home.
It's not like I don't appreciate what I've got, where we live. As prisons go it's up there with the best, it's just that, now and again, we'd like to get away. It's just that, now and again, we'd like to see our kids. Talk to our kids. Hug our kids. That's not much to ask is it? Well. Yeah. I guess it is.
It has been nearly a year since seeing my youngest son, such a long time since a normal family life has been possible.
Like I say, I know we're privileged to live here. We forget how life was for our ancestors, how much more difficult life was just a few decades ago. Take this place for instance...
Cute isn't it? This is just above us on top of the hill, close to our garden. I pass it most days while walking the hound. The bit on the left is a shed, to the right is a collapsed stable. That little bit in the middle? That was home for the current owner's grandparents. It consisted of two rooms. A kitchen and a bedroom. The grandparents slept on the damp soil floor of the kitchen, their daughter slept in the tiny bedroom.
Their diet was mostly potatoes and eggs. Three hectares made for scant provisions.
Ah, yes, also the 'top of the range' bathroom...
This was normal life just two or three generations ago.
And I worry when the internet goes down...
So instead of relishing the fact that today's standards are so much better, we planned to live in something even smaller for the next couple of weeks.
Colour us 'special needs'...
So yes, I do appreciate what I've got. But I want more. I want... no... I need to see my kids. It's a primordial thing ok? It's written into our genetic code. I am powerless before its encoded force. The force is with us...
We see our daughter in Montauban with her two sproggs every now and again, between snotty noses, phlegmatic coughs, sleep deprivation etc. And for that I'm grateful. But the other three plus the grandkids?
We needed a plan.
A cunning plan.
A cunning plan that might even take us to the dark side...
We would go over to the UK (aka 'the dark side') by Gnome, via the Eurotunnel. This way we would have no contact with smelly human beings, minimising our risk of catching this bloody plague, minimising the risk of infecting maman on our return. Simple.
Er. No.
Our first attempt had failed. What a surprise. This was planned for May, before the seriousness of the pandemic was fully realised by those in power. France locked down. Travel was banned. Our Eurotunnel tickets became useless as they disappeared into the vacuum of their cyberspace. I finally extracted credit from them, but when could that be used? Time ground by...
Despite respite, despite life returning to a different normal during the summer, it was clear that winter would bring with it another surge, another wave. If we were to see the kids we needed to move now.
First, we needed someone to look after the house, the animals, and, most of all, maman, for that period. Not an easy ask nor an easy task. Annick's sister bravely volunteered, but she and her other (Better? Lesser? No comment...) half had to come from Paris, a region rapidly growing in invasive viral particles. Would they be caught in lock down? At the same time, lock-downs were happening in the UK, notably in Wales. Would we arrive to find no-one there? Was it even worth trying? Yes. My eldest needed to come back with us to France for much needed succour.
All he needed to do was escape Cardiff...
This whole plan was a giant jigsaw made up of multiple interconnecting but changing pieces. For this plan, this jigsaw, to work required all pieces to fall together at the same time.
Little did we know that the jigsaw was soon to fragment into even more deranged parts.
This was like spinning plates.
Chapter 2: The first leg.
The day had finally arrived. We were to leave our home in the care of our brave family, to head north towards .... er ... the north.
Annick's family had arrived, against all the odds, to care for our menagerie. Instructions had been left (don't forget to feed the dog, cat, fish, ducks, peacocks, cranes, poultry and, oh yes, maman). The Gnome was packed to its eyeballs with food, drink, clothing and... more drink.
What could possibly go wrong?
Well, here's a thing. Quite a lot actually.
Our plan was to travel north in several stages. You know. Take it easy. Relax. We would take a few days to get to the tunnel, then stay at my long unseen youngest son's home. Fine. No problem. Except, well, we'd be stuck in quarantine for fourteen days, forced to stay there. We were not even allowed to take our dog for a walk! This was lucky considering we didn't have her with us.
We didn't have far to go that day as we left in the afternoon from home. However, we had a bad feeling...
The world is changed...
I feel it in the water.
I feel it in the earth.
Much that once was, is lost.
For the time will soon come when Covid will shape the fortunes of all.
A distant rumour, a sense of concern, a problem.
My young sons better half (hereon-in called the Elf) was not well. Feverishness. Stiffness.
Gulp.
Our plan was starting to unravel...
Chapter 3: Lacave.
We arrived near Rocamadour in a small village called Lacave...
Here, under the eye of a distant hill-top edifice of sorcery and indoctrination (a church) we awaited news of what is and what should never be...
We had arrived at our first overnight stop. Our first opportunity to try out our newly upgraded starship campervan. Yes; we had heating that actually warmed the van without bursting our eardrums during the small hours of the night. Yes; we had solar panels that could recharge our on-board quantum energy system (batteries). Yes; I had parked under a sodding tree so that the solar panels were pretty much useless.
But the most important thing, above all others, was the new espresso machine. This was run from a newly installed converter. It's very clever. It converts electricity to ... electricity.
Espresso. Coffee for those non-europeans amongst you (and that, of course, now includes us Brits). It is the liquor of life. It is the energy that maintains our soul. It stimulates and arouses. Thankfully, it tastes pretty damn good too.
Talking of souls, we had parked under the watchful gaze of the Chateau de Belcastel, (not, it should be noticed, that of the same name near Rodez).
This is an absolutely classic example of how the local populace was (and still is) controlled by the rich and the powerful. This stunning castle (now a private residence) was built suspended 55 metres above the river below, making fishing somewhat awkward and diving a one-off event.
First, build your castle on a nearly unassailable mountain top. Then, higher still, build the real suppressor of the masses, a church.
There must be a better way...
Let me think...
A thousand years ago, someone obviously thought that building this monument to their narcissism would be a good idea. "Look at me, I've got lots of money and you haven't". However, to control the peasants (who were, after all, the poor bastards who built the bloody thing) they needed more than huge impenetrable stone walls, they also needed to control their souls. To this end, a church was built even higher than the castle itself, thus proving its worth to the subjugated masses below.
It was later rebuilt in the fourteenth century to prove, yet again, that it was much better having money than just living off the soil.
They had a point...
All this effort was expended to control the masses, and yet, if they had waited for only about four hundred years, for the Knights of St John, then the coffee that they brought with them from the Great Siege of Malta (another little known fact) would have worked just as well.
Coffee. Better than building churches. A catchy slogan I think.
___
Back in the Gnome, my morning coffee was beginning to have its profound effect, slowing my spouting of philosophy...
This stop-over was but a quick break. To get to our next stop involved a long drive and we needed to set off early. We were to head for the Loire Valley, to see how castles really should be built, to see how the masses really should be repressed. (Aarghhh! Give him another coffee!)
Meanwhile, back in abnormal land, the Elf had been tested for the dreaded plague on mankind. And Elfkind. We awaited the result. If negative then our cunning plan could continue. If positive our cunning plan was wrecked. If no result came, then our plan was but a dog's breakfast.
If this was not enough to knock us off course, news then arrived of another nail in the coffin of our not-so cunning plan. Wales was to lockdown completely in three days time. The very day that we were due to arrive in the UK. Failing a direct asteroid hit, what else could possibly go wrong?
Quite a lot actually...
Chapter 4: Winter is Coming.
After experiencing my usual haute petite cuisine in the belly of the Gnome, it was time to leave the Lot.
We were to head north towards the Loire Valley, an area renowned for its castles, its wine and its artichokes. I was hoping that artichoke wine wasn't a thing...
The news that Wales was soon to lock down, independently of England, was potentially a severe blow to us. Two of my three UK-resident offspring (plus one smaller sized sprogg) lived in Wales, and we were desperate to see them. It's all in the genes you know.
This shutdown came as no surprise, it was a matter of when, not if. The fact that it was to start on the day of our arrival probably did not come into their deliberations. It was also as clear as day that England would have to go the same way. Their King of the Dis-United Kingdom, Emperor Boris, son of Stanley, son of John, had to decide how many old people could be thrown under the bus before the inevitable U-turn. Sadly it would prove to be quite a few thousand but, as is often pointed out, we are all going to die someday anyway. Yeah, thanks for that.
Not that the UK was on its own in this mess. We also knew that France was heading the same way, we only awaited President Manual Mach-One to make the same decision, after spending some time with pointless curfews and such. These milder sanctions simply do not work against this highly contagious agent. There are several theories as to why this should be, but we were soon to find out ourselves, upon our return from the UK. We would see first hand how the best laid plans can fail utterly.
A bit like ours really...
The future was certainly looking more and more apocryphal. We were heading into winter both literally and metaphorically. The signs were all around us.
Somehow, roads littered with dead leaves are so much more alluring that roads littered with dead people.
Despite all this depth of despondency, we had a crossing booked on the Eurostar, and we were going to use it, even if it meant turning straight back to escape the oncoming lockdown, confinement and doom combined.
With Wales locking down, would we still be able to see our loved ones? If the Elf has not received her results would we be able to see the Bristol contingent? If England was to shutdown could we escape its evil clutches? If artichoke wine is a thing would my stomach seek psychiatric help?
Some of these questions may or may not be answered in future chapters of - Gnome-Trek....
...
And so, as I write this, we enter the second week of the second lockdown in France due to this pandemic. On the surface, nothing much appears to have changed. We already had a curfew in place, this was just a further tightening of our freedoms.
This time all appears calmer. The same sense of fear is not there. The roads are less busy than normal, but not empty as in the first lockdown. The supermarkets are quieter, most people seem to use the now more efficient online ordering systems.
However, we no longer can we see our family nor our friends at all, whether local or otherwise. Even seeing our nearby offspring edges up higher on the difficulty ladder.
There are no riots and no obvious police presence. There is a strange atmosphere of general acceptance of a life forced into a new normal.
Below the surface, however, is a different and much more perturbing story. This apparently graceful swan is paddling like shit.
Our local hospital is full. And when I say that it is full, I mean it is FULL. Full of covid sufferers. The staff are falling sick, some with stress and some with covid itself. The curve is forever upwards and it will inevitably get far worse. Many other hospitals in France are also full, so what happens to new cases whether covid or otherwise is anyone's guess.
And most worrying of all, most of these patients are in their 40's or 50's. Read that again.
This infection is only just reaching us older farts. At least two local retirement homes now have cases. This is not good. This was predicted but most of us appear to have stuck our heads in the sand. If us old farts get ill then hospital may no longer be a choice. Now that really is scary.
This wave is set to be far worse than the first wave. This time it is more like a wave goodbye.
Winter may technically be two months away, but I'm sorry, winter is already knocking on the door.
...
For the two of us wild adventurers, back on our north-bound adventure, (I bet you'd forgotten about that already) this was just an oncoming prospect, a distant worry, oft decried by those on social networks who prefer to spout their hopes in lieu of facts.
We knew this was coming, we just did not realise how soon it was to arrive.
What should we do in our comfortable state of ignorance? Do we give up and return home? How do we balance the risks when the risks are invisible?
As one of our most important goals was to fetch our eldest, and as there would be absolutely no other chance to see our kids in the next several months, we kept on with our original plan. Or was it our second plan? Third maybe?
After five hours of driving, plus an hour of dormant siesta, and a further hour of coffee consumption, we arrived in the Loire Valley, blissfully ignorant of what the future would bring...
The future was to bring chapter 5. Hopefully it will be more lighthearted than this depressing crap. And I haven't even started on the American elections yet. Or Brexit.
Hand me that bottle of wine...
Chapter 5: Loches
After that slightly depressing interlude (you know, covid 'n stuff) several of you have put in official complaints, so I need to make this chapter more upbeat. Hmmm... Nothing about viruses, nothing about imbecilic government leaders, nothing about impoverishing an entire nation. Um...
Well, I could talk about the amazing things we saw on our trip north through France. How would that do?
The whole trip was wrapped in stress, so stopping off in various 'places of interest' was actually a good way of us ignoring the realities of life, and going to the Loire Valley was one good example. With more to come.
Visiting the Loire Valley has always been high up on my Bucket List. Yes, it's true, I have a list of buckets. I wanted to see if this region lived up to all its hype, and look towards planning a future Gnome-trek here to visit more sites in more detail.
We had only just arrived in the area when we came across Loches. I had never heard of it before, but then my knowledge of France is not exactly world-renowned, and, let's be fair, they have probably never heard of me either.
It turned out to be a beautiful fortified citadel town, unfortunately hidden by the encroaching gloom. A gloom driven by gathering clouds, the coming night and by the news. (Uh-oh, stay with the story Phil...)
We stopped near the centre of town, next to its huge outer ramparts. Although, disappointingly few parts of rams could actually be seen.
It was, by that time, too late to visit the town's central chateau, and its giant walls prevented us from getting much of a view. This photo is all we could see of St Ours church, an impressive romanesque building unfortunately mostly covered with impressive non-romanesque tarpaulin.
We decided to rest the gnome for the night so went in search of a gnome-home.
We settled for staying overnight in a small parking area put aside for camper-vans. These no-fee areas are to be found all over France, although some are better placed than others, as we shall find out in future much-anticipated chapters. This turned out to be a peaceful site next to a canal. For us it was simply somewhere to eat, drink and sleep, ready for another hectic day.
These sites usually have few if any facilities. Which brings us to one gnome-deficient problem. It's small exterior size has many advantages, plus its four wheel drive powerful motor can get us pretty much anywhere. Being magically bigger on its inside than on its outside makes for an incredible machine, but its inner hugeness is not enough to allow separate toilet facilities. When researching this vehicle it was remarkably difficult to find any reference to how you take a leak in the middle of the night. And you will probably be relieved (pun intended) to hear that I'll not go into details here either...
Meanwhile...
The Elf still had no results to her covid test, despite all the moon-shot promises made by King Boris. Hopefully 'no news is good news', although 'no virus' would have been better news. Due to these worries ...
Whilst writing this on day 10 of our second lockdown in France, the news has at long last come in from across the pond. Uncle Joe has finally succeeded, releasing me from staring at voting figures and percentage chances of the universe going insane.
It is clear that there are very many happy people over there, and sadly, nearly an equal number angry. I just pray that any narcissistic tantrums will not spill over. The rest of the world has just looked on in total bemusement, and now, along with the planet itself, breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe the climate can now be saved. Maybe.
This was all still in the future as we woke from our nights sleep, including obligatory toilet break which I promised not to mention again.
...
Once our morning ablutions were finished, and appropriate volumes of coffee drunk, we went into the walled citadel of Loches.
Within is a small network of streets, reminding us of Carcassonne, with a scattering of ancient buildings some still in use today. Oldest is the Keep, (Le Donjon).
This was built in the 10th century by the prolific fortress builder Count d'Anjou.
Now there's a job.
"Hi. What do you do?"
"I'm a prolific fortress builder."
"What's a prolific fortress?"
Well, this may have been built over a thousand years ago, but even so, I was really impressed by their wifi coverage and use of digital tablet technology. Each and every room in this keep could be seen in original full detail on the provided tablet. Now that's thinking ahead.
Thinking ahead was obviously good for the Count. One of his offspring was called Henry. Henry Plantagenet. Still don't know him? He was otherwise called Henry the Third, the most powerful man in Europe at that time. You never know how your kids are going to turn out.
Me? I've told my kids to avoid being kings or queens if at all possible. You tend to end up with red hot pokers up your bum. To be fair, Henry III lived to the ripe old age of 65, with no pokers in sight. In those long past days, 65 really was old. Having gone passed that age, I can concur. I still eye pokers with suspicion...
 |
| View from the damp Keep over St Ours church |
...
We have come to a telling moment. Eleven days into the lockdown over here in France, the country of my choice but not my birth. There are already rumours of extending the lockdown, and I now realise it's full import. I have promised to write a blog every day about our voyage into the plague, and I'm now fully aware that I've got to string this story out far beyond its original limits.
Thankfully monsters have come to my rescue...
In medieval times monsters were believed to exist. Now, of course, we know perfectly well that they DO exist. The problem is that it is not the monsters under the bed that do harm. True man-killing monsters that sought to destroy our human race from the bottom up have long been eliminated by our own primeval ingenuity.
It is true that some slightly smaller monsters still persist, covid being just one electro-microscopic example. But no. It is the monsters at the top that we must truly fear. Those that rule us, but care only for themselves. Both Trumplethinskin and Buffoon Boris are perfect examples of this. Whether you love them or loath them is totally irrelevant. They do not give a shit about you. These are the true monsters. Monsters of indifference. Narcissists. Parasites.
The fact that so many of us vote for them is not exactly promising for our chances of future survival.
OK. I appear to be slipping back into depressing philosophy. Despite all this, just remember what the wonderful French culture says:
La vie est belle.
Talking of la belle et la bête, the monsters here (back on our trip to the UK) are to be found in the Keep of Loches. They represent mythical beasts that were believed to exist in medieval times by most who lived in those dark times.
This particular dragon however had clear copyright issues with Monsters Inc.
There was one beast there however that all others looked towards.
Not the king of beasts, not the ruler of monsters, not the Dark One. They were mentioned in the bible and many today believe them to exist and are soon to come to save the UK.
Unicorns.
Although I try not to plunge myself once more into deep political musings and end up philosophising, but walking by this statue of a mythical beast forces me to cringe at the abject stupidity of all that is now happening in the UK.
Whilst wandering around the Keep of Loches, we stumbled upon this mythical beast. Yes guys, it is mythical. Despite the dreams of Brexiteers keen to magic something out of the disaster that is now unfolding over and above this bloody virus, unicorns are just as imaginary as the mindless goals that they used to think were possible.
In the same way that the world looks on in bemusement at what has happened in the USA, so the world looks on in bemusement at what the UK is inflicting upon itself. The EU has already more than made up for any losses incurred through Brexit by making trade deals with other countries, while the UK is staring down the barrel of a gun.
Drinking the blood of a unicorn can supposedly heal any illness, so I suggest anyone still thinking that Brexit is a good idea go out and kill one. Maybe it will heal your brain. Unfortunately they are also supposed to live forever, so you may be out of luck.
The only remaining realistic advantage of leaving the EU is the arrival of Unicorns. I mean, seriously guys, now any possible advantage of leaving THE WORLD'S BIGGEST TRADING BLOCK has been totally proven to be without any merit at all. The UK has lost any power that it had on the world stage, it has lost its respect, it has even lost its own parliamentary sovereignty and now the USA (the second largest trading block in the world) has made it more than clear that the UK can submerge itself in the crap of its own making.
WHAT WERE YOU THINKING???
Fish rather than freedom of movement.
‘Sovereignty’ rather than sanity.
Borders rather than cooperation.
Populism rather than prosperity.
Law-breaking rather than truth.
Instead of losing my mind entirely (after all, I still had to get to the UK and back before my passport changed colour), here is something that sums it all up nicely:
The barman draws it & throws it into his face.
“Why did you do that?” Nigel asks.
“'You asked for a pint,” the barman says. “But you didn't say how you wanted it delivered.”
Farage replies: “Okay, I’ll have a pint in a pint glass”
“No. You can't ask again.,” the barman says.
“Why not?” Farage asks.
“Democracy,” the barman replies.
And so we finally managed to escape the keep and its strange inhabitants, only to come across what appeared to be a stag having an epileptic fit. Just beyond; the Royal Lodgings.
This appeared quite opulent from the outside. More windows perhaps?
It was built about three hundred years after the Keep. Yeah, builders were just the same back in those days.
Despite its outer grandeur, inside it was little more than a couple of uninteresting room,
This was the favourite residence of King Charles VII, who went on to give it to his favourite mistress (he had many of them, poor sod). Her name? Agnes. Amusing huh? She was known to be the first official mistress of the king, a job-description you don't see too often these days. She was apparently very beautiful. There is a portrait of her within with one breast without. Thankfully I have not included a photo here...
Joan of Arc popped in here for a cup of tea and persuaded Charlie (then called the Dauphin) to go to Reims and, with her help, become King. This was a job he did pretty well, preferring peace to war. He successfully unified much of France. The pope couldn't even persuade him to go on one of his genocidal crusades, so the guy's alright by me.
Agnes was buried in the local church of St Ours. Thankfully she was dead at the time, after apparently being killed by mercury poisoning.
He then turned the place into a prison. I guess he was upset.
This place was full of history, as well as monsters, but sadly we had to move on. We had a few hours drive before us, to arrive on the northern French coast.
Our destination for our final overnight stop in France before heading underwater the Merry England was to be Honfleur.
Our plan beyond that was still in doubt.Chapter 6: Honfleur
We had to leave Loches in a hurry. Not because the monsters wanted to keep us in the Keep, not because Joan d'Arc wanted to make me king, not because Agnes beckoned with breast exposed (you really do have to keep up), but because we had a train to catch.
Hmmm. Not quite as exciting...
We looked to find somewhere not too far from Calais but away from the madding crowd. Ok, there are almost no madding crowds now (because of the virus that shall not be named) unless you want to kill yourself and your antecedents at a Trump rally. In Europe our version is anti-mask rallies. Fine. At least they will be less likely to reproduce.
Evolution in action.
And thus, after all this cogitation, we arrived in Honfleur. We were too late to do the tourist stuff, so we opted to stop in a carpark with a corner put over to cheapskates like us.
First: Convert van into comfortable lounge/kitchen.
Second: Cook.
Third: Eat, drink, and approach merriment.
Fourth: Convert to sleeping accommodation.
Fifth: Sleep, perchance to dream.
...
Sixth: Have a pee...
We awoke the next morning, as one does after you've spent the night sleeping, then went through the normal routine:
First: Wake up
Second: Irritate your partner by waking her up.
Third: Transmogrify the Gnome.
Fourth: Coffee
Fifth: Gourge on a yoghurt.
Sixth: Coffee.
Seventh: Take all appropriate medication.
Eighth: Clean all appropriate bits.
Ninth: Do tourist stuff.
So there we were, in Honfleur. A beautiful place despite the fact that I'm not a great fan of the sea, although I suspect that the sea doesn't really care about my opinion either. I kinda get that.
The sea itself is utterly boring, I mean, it's wet and it's flat (barring life-ending weather patterns), but it does bring out the details of the coastline quite nicely.
The major problem is people. There is always too many of them.
Oooh... Hang on...
Clearly the pandemic has its up-side. Now was the time to go wandering around the tourist spots of France.
The shitty weather probably didn't help either.
The centre piece of this beautiful town is the Port. Despite it being full of water, I have to accept that it looked pretty damned good.
This port guards the estuary of the Seine. It was from here that Samuel de Champlain founded Quebec. He must have been well lost at the time.
Many of these buildings are covered all over with slates, not just the roofs, as if an overzealous shingler had been let loose from the local psychotic roofer asylum.
And bright colours everywhere, except maybe the sky, which was a kind of dull grey.
For some strange reason, the further north we came, the less the weather met with our approval. Call us fussy but has anyone else noticed this?
Despite our need for haste, we allotted ourselves a little time to look around the port and discover its history.
...
And so here in France we have just started our third week in our second lockdown. Halfway through lockdown and halfway through this grim tale. Or is it? To add to my torment (and undoubtably yours too) it has just been announced that the lockdown may be extended at least a further two weeks, and possibly more. Unsurprisingly, for us, this is not good news. Our home help (for Maman) has had to be reduced, and now our Thunderbirds Rescue Team (the family) will not be able to get here to give us any chance of a further Gnome-Trek this year.
There is worse. Somehow I have to extend this blog.
I feel like giving up.
So I probably will...
Hey! Less of the cheering guys!
Back to our story. For me this is an aid to escape lockdown blues, as well as being a way of inflicting pain upon my fellow man.
...
Honfleur has an interesting history, one which has actually had a significant impact upon myself personally. Moi-même.
It was first occupied by the vikings, who named it the 'Land of the North Men'. Aka Normandy. Who knew? The only influence of the Vikings on me is by supplying most of my genetic make up, making me the Adonis that I am today...
I'm also reliably informed that they were quite self-delusional.
Honfleur is in a strategically useful position, and proved important at the beginning of the hundred years war, although it was only called the six-month war at that time...
During this long drawn out conflict, the English captured it at least twice. OK, stop the patriotic fervour. You do realise the 'the English' were basically French anyway? The French Anguvins ruled England at the time, although we try not to mention that in public.
One of the things that you often see in ports and marinas (what is the bloody difference?) is boats. There are yachts galore, but what are they for? Do they do anything? They just seem to sit there. And do they have to be spelt like that?
"Look at me, I have lots of money. Or at least I did before I bought this piece of useless flotsam."
Amongst all the political shenanigans, despite all the financial crises, viral attacks, despair, depression; there are better things. Better things out there than all this crap.
One such saving grace is art.
In 1824, a son was born to the harbour master of Honfleur. A certain Eugène Boudin. He was not, as you may imagine, the father of the Boudin sausage, the French equivalent of black pudding. (How some boudin sausages are white is a complete mystery to me.) No, he was to become important in the world of art. And one of his favoured devotees; my favourite painter. Claude Monet.
Between Monet, Boudin and a few others, they started a completely new form of art; Impressionism.
Here are some of his original paintings that I have hanging on my wall...
These masterpieces were painted in Honfleur, where his early inspiration came from.
Some of his early works look amazingly like some of my later works...
Well, fantasising about having some of his work was not going to get us to our goal. A goal that was still uncertain.
The Elf still had not received the results of her covid test. Wales was about to go into lockdown. Rumours abounded that Bristol could soon enter curfew if not complete lockdown, and it was now beyond doubt that the whole of England would have to go the same way.
We were soon to enter a tunnel. Were we would go when we came out of it was still uncertain.
Thank God for coffee.
Chapter 7: Leaving France
The story so far:
We had left home with a plan. A plan that was not so much set in stone, but more like a weather forecast. Changeable with a chance of just about any bloody thing, although rain would almost certainly be involved somewhere.
We needed to get to the UK. We needed to see our loved ones there, and to bring one of them back. Any of them would do. We had a small window of opportunity. We needed someone to care for my mum-in-law, animals, house and sanity. We needed to avoid infection with the dreaded plague. We needed a single safe abode in England (where we would have enforced quarantine) and we needed our other kids to get there (despite Welsh lockdown) to see us. For us to see them. To see, perchance to hug. If not hug, at least we could see each other from a safe distance of two hundred centimetres.
All these pieces of the jigsaw needed to fit together at the same time. Jigsaw pieces that were constantly morphing.
Time was ticking by. We needed to get to the Eurotunnel in Calais for boarding early that afternoon, so our trip around the port of Honfleur was short but definitely sweet.
A curfew had now been put in place over nearly all of France, this included everywhere we needed to go. We could only drive during the day so our return trip, booked for the middle of the night, could produce some interesting problems. But hey, problems were the name of this trip.
As we drove towards Calais, we reflected on all that was in play. We were apprehensive. If the Elf tested positive, where would we stay? If she had not received her results by the time we arrived later that afternoon, what would we do? Even if we stayed with them in Bristol, would we be able to see our other kids? Would the coffee machine still work?
Spoiler alert, coffee problems ahead...
The roads were getting busier as we approached our destination, the skies were getting darker, but the trip was smooth as were the roads themselves. The Gnome coped extremely well with strong side winds. This was surprising to me due to the Gnomes somewhat brick-like shape, I guess that there’s some kind of computer controlled compensation device that dealt with this. Good old Gnome.
French roads really are generally bloody good, although the French will complain about any pot-hole. That may be no different from the UK, the difference is that in France they get repaired. This was our last opportunity to appreciate the French roads before experiencing the pain to come.
We were soon arrived at Calais. With almost no delay (checking passports, checking for drugs, checking for illegal immigrants, everything except checking our tickets, this was again dealt with by the ubiquitous computers) we drove straight onto the train. No personal contact, no internal searches, all perfectly covid safe.
The trip, taking only half an hour, was smooth and uneventful, which was good as I expect that any ‘event’ might be quite catastrophic with a few billion tons of water above our heads.
We were soon to enter a different country. Almost a different world...
On leaving the train, we head straight onto the motorway, straight into the rain.
I'm not sure if the surfaces of the M20 and M25 are designed to keep you awake or not, but I feared what effect it was having on the poor Gnome's tires. For fifty miles the road surface battled with my sanity. The almost regular road joins making the Gnome sound like a demented train.
There were major road works going on. When aren't there major road works going on? But this had a slightly foreboding air to it. These appeared to be works readying for the oncoming giant lorry parks, the Farage Garages, that are to be another necessary and crazy result of the UK's oncoming Brexit. The fact that these were being built on flood plains, that flooded four times a year, was simply indicative of the complete shambles that is Brexit.
All this soon unearths suppressed anger at what is being done to the country of my birth, and the affect that it is and will have upon my friends and family.
Now, just so we know what we are talking about here, there are three and a half major reasons given for people voting to leave the European Union; cost, immigration, sovereignty, and, well er, kippers.
All of these have long known to be false reasoning based on misinformation. The latest figures from the CBI show membership of the EU profited the UK by at least three trillion pounds. Before joining, the UK was the poor man of Europe. Within it we became the fifth, nearly fourth, richest country on the planet. Since leaving (and the main damage has yet to be done) we are sliding down the list. Echos of Eurovision Song Contest spring to mind.
Sovereignty in the UK is with its parliament. We've always had it, up until now. It now rests within a small cabal within the government.
Immigration: Leaving the EU was sold as controlling our borders. Oh yes, what a great idea! Since leaving we have found out that this means not getting enough employees for the NHS, for farming, for the hospitality industry etc etc. It also took away the right of UK citizens to stay and work in any of the other European counties. Yeah, thanks for that.
Fish. Yeah, 'nuff said.
So apart from the wrecked economy, the loss of rights and freedoms, and giving the UK international pariah status, what has Brexit done for you?
From the 1st of January onwards, these huge parking areas will be full of lorries trying to cross to Europe. That just has to be great for the portable toilet industry....
Chapter 8: Bristol
We arrived in Bristol late afternoon. The Elf had still not received her results! We could not risk staying in the house, for fear of catching the dreaded lurgy, so we went to Plan B.
We had no choice. We had to sleep in the Gnome on their short driveway (the Gnome just fitted into it) next to a busy road. It was to be a difficult night interrupted by traffic and the occasional drunk.
What was to follow would be a rollercoaster of emotions...
She was a daughter of the Eldar from the eastern edge of middle earth, from Jelenia Góra deep in the Giant Mountains, bordering the land of the Pôles. Thankfully she was no dancer.
She came to the Land of the Angles in search of wisdom and riches, but fell instead into the enchantment of Luke, a human with the power of animation.
Then came the great schism, the battle between all that was good and unifying and all that was evil and divisive.
Evil won the day. The continent of middle earth was divided. Fear was instilled into the natives, impelling them to revile and despise those from distant foreign parts, including the Elf herself.
And then a plague was brought down upon the land, a pestilence that caused much grief and death. It flung apart loved ones.
Two of those still inhabiting distant realms attempted to close the riven gap with the aid of the great Gnome.
Verily it had been such a long time since they had been together, and longed to meet with them again.
But Evil was ever present, and sought to keep them apart. Illness struck the Elf, and it was feared that she had fallen under the power of the Dark Lord. She underwent the plague test, an ancient and enigmatic procedure involving the forceful thrusting of a baton of truth into the head. All had to remain masked except the Elfling, who had been instilled with some kind of magical resilience to the dark powers.
All kept their masked distance incase the malign influence took hold upon them. Forced to eat outside and at an appropriate distance, sustenance was taken while sheltering against the forces of nature under a tarpaulin.
Then, finally, without warning, results were received using a magical hand-held device. As opposed to the foot-held variety. The Elf was not riddled by plague, she was well.
Celebrations abounded, much beverage was quaffed and exotic foodstuffs devoured.
Happiness was cast liberally all around.
Finally, success.
A moment of glorious achievement after all the travails that this voyage had cast upon the distant travellers. All the muddled pieces had come together in that moment.
But it was not to last.
Angry at failing to contaminate the Elf, the Dark One cast far and wide for another victim, and found, well hidden in the Land of Pôles, the Elf's very own and fragile father.
All hope was once again lost.
That first evening was spent in warm companionship as we tried to catch up with much lost time. Warm in the emotional sense, bloody freezing in the temperature sense. With the aforementioned obligatory rain thrown in for added atmosphere. Tarpaulins come in handy.
Always aware of the risk of transmission of the dreaded lurgy, and in the absence of test results, the evening had a slightly foreboding air, but this was healed by the first of two secret weapons. Indian food.
This is something I most sorely miss living in France, despite it otherwise having the best cuisine in the world. In our hometown in France there is something calling itself an Indian restaurant, but it serves a distant mockery of the real thing.
One attempt to eat there resulted in what must be the most bizarre meal that I have ever had. Upon our arrival we were asked by the waitress what we required in a strange ‘er, what are you doing here?’ sort of way. On explaining that we were there to eat, she initially looked quite perplexed, then hurriedly prepared a table whilst apparently phoning for a cook...
The menu consisted of chicken curry, meat curry or vegetable curry each in three different levels of spiciness. That was it. I chose the vegetable vindaloo as I’m never quite sure what ‘meat’ might be, plus I love aubergines. I chose the hottest as the French are not renowned for their appreciation of hot spices.
After a considerable wait where we considered the possibility that no cook had been found and the waitress had escaped, meals were brought in individually with about five or so minutes between each. There were about five of us so this took quite some time. Then they brought the accompanying breads. What a shambles.
The dish finally delivered to me whilst having spent half an hour watching everyone else eat, turned out not to be a veggie dish, but something akin to distant relative of a chicken. When I complained I was informed that they had run out of aubergines so they replaced it with chicken!
For some strange reason we have not been back.
Admittedly the ‘real thing’ in the uk does not relate too accurately with the ‘real thing’ in India, but having gone through my formative years living on the stuff, it has become part of who I am. Quite literally I suppose.
Our plan was succeeding, and this evening together meant so much. But we still had to keep distant. And not because of the side effects of Indian food.
The original plan was that we would stay for about five days, but because of the looming doom of lockdown, we were to return early after only two nights there. During the next two days we would see the Welsh escapees, Jon and Lisa and her sprogg Sienna. The master plan was that Jon would arrive on the last day, then the three of us would leave to drive directly to Montauban sharing the driving. Non-stop, covid secure.
There seems to be a theme when it comes to my best laid plans. This was another doomed to failure.
It was the following morning that we found out about the Elf's dad having covid. This was a real shock to all of us knowing about his health problems. However, he always seemed pretty fit to me so I was optimistic. We know quite a few people now that have caught this virus, with extremely differing results. It seems to be circling around us, ready to strike. This certainly took the edge off our celebratory mood.
We needed help.
We needed hugs.
After we had dragged ourselves out of our first night in the Gnome next to a busy road, the first thing on my mind was not hugs, it was coffee. This is when I discovered a design fault in our home on wheels. We had fitted solar panels to drive an inverter, which in turn powers the coffee machine. One minor problem with solar panels is their insistence on having some sunshine. Since arriving in the UK we'd had zero. Zilch. Nicht. Black clouds are not conducive to charging batteries. Of course, if I'd thought of bringing an adapter we could have plugged the Gnome in. Worse than that, I had brought one, I'd just forgotten I had done so, and found it when unpacking upon our return. Age...
I was in dire need of hugs. However, hugs have been officially banned by the government, and the thought police are all around us. Should we attempt illegal hugs? Could we risk breaking the law just because of a coffee addiction? Could I insist that hugs were necessary to test my eyesight?
Yeah, maybe.
But there was another solution. Our secret weapon number two.
Full personal protective equipment. Ha! Gotcha, you viral bastard!
For instance. We had specialised French anti viral masks:
Specialised whole body plastic coveralls:
And special filters:
With a combination of these things, were we within our rights to hug? Was it within the law to reduce our social distances? Would any attempt at close contact mean a knock at the door and a call of "'Allo 'allo, what's going' on 'ere then?"
It is not within the terms of this blog to describe exactly what happened, for fear of legal reprisals. Suffice to say that it was a touching moment...
And so our stay in the UK was drawing to a close. We had achieved our first objective. We had met with our long lost family. Now it was farewells and wondering where and when on earth we would be able to meet again. Bittersweet.
But what of our second objective? That of returning with my eldest offspring? Fate had another twist of the knife ready for us. He could not return with us, but would hope to come over soon. That hope, too, was to to be impeded by what was soon to come, along with the rest of our plans...
Chapter 9: To France
We set off mid-afternoon from Bristol, just the two of us and the Gnome. Although this had not been our original intention, we felt that we would do the old ‘every problem is an opportunity’ thing. We would take our time on the return trip and visit a few more castles etc on our way.
Fate had other ideas...
The Gnome-transporter was pre-booked for the wee small hours in the morning. This time had made sense when we had worked-out our trip, as the intention was to drive non-stop. However, with just me driving that was not going to happen. Now the middle-of-the-night crossing presented us with a new problem. The French curfew was now firmly in place and did not allow driving between the hours of 9pm and 6am. We were due to arrive smack in the middle of this. It seemed unlikely that this would mean we would be arrested the moment we left the train. I felt there had to be something in place for such arrivals as the train had apparently not been cancelled.
It seemed unlikely, but this didn’t stop us from being a little concerned.
The English part of the trip went smoothly. Hmm. What am I saying? That bloody road surface nearly drove me nuts. It did go more quickly than anticipated however. One reason was that I’d forgotten how few service stations there are in the UK. My wish to stop halfway was thwarted. Thus we arrived with much time to spare, and we had to go into the admin center to get our tickets sorted.
The complete absence of fellow travellers was somewhat disturbing. That and the incessant rain made us feel past of an apocalyptic disaster movie. This feeling was to get worse on arriving in France.
Upon arrival we were not immediately arrested nor did we drop into a black hole. We simply drove off the train straight onto an empty motorway.
Empty.
Surreal.
Ghostly.
Maybe this wasn’t a movie after all, and at some time in our journey civilisation had come to an end without telling us.
My objective was to stop to sleep in an aire, but I had been warned not to stop too close to Calais, presumably because of zombies. You get a lot of zombies in post-apocalyptic service stations.
We were not totally alone, there was an occasional lorry on the road, but very few. It was almost completely deserted. Lorries were allowed to transit in the curfew, but this was Sunday when normally in France there are only food lorries allowed on the roads.
Spooky.
Driving along those deserted highways took me back to when I was a young kid. We lived on the southern edge of sprawling London, my grandparents lived way up north in Lancashire. The only route to the north was through Central London. Back then, in the middle of the night Central London was empty. If we saw other cars we would flash our lights to say hi. I remember driving through Piccadilly Circus and actually seeing another car! Whoop!
This was similar, only with less cars. In fact, the only other car I saw was the police that came hurtling behind us with blue lights flashing and sirens screaming. Ooh-er, I thought. A delayed arrest? But no, he went speeding past us on to some more important prey. Zombies maybe?
We stopped at a service station, void of life apart from a few sleeping ogres. Sleeping was just possible, but not when the ogres woke at 6am to be on their way. The Gnome however rested peacefully, unconcerned.
After dragging myself awake the next morning, the roads started to fill again and we set off into the throng.
Our goal this day was to get to the Loire Valley again, this time our plan was to stay a couple of nights near the Chateau de Chenonceau.
Chapter 10: Chateau de Chenonceau.
We arrived just before the gates were due to close, thus not getting a sight of the castle over its walls. We parked up ready to eat drink and be merry, then to collapse into undisturbed sleep.
We were to be disappointed...
We arrived in the small village of Chenonceaux too late to visit the chateau, so we settled down just outside the grounds in a small area dedicated to motor homes, camper-vans and various gnome-like creatures.
It was just next to a small railway station, which worried me slightly until we saw how infrequent and small the trains were, and we knew that after the curfew at 9pm all would be silent.
I cooked us an unforgettable meal of, er, hmmm.... something, then transmogrified the van into a luxurious bedroom. Ish. Then, after checking out the news, the latest Twitter feed, and other bog standard things that campers do, I spiralled down into the nether regions of sleepdom....
I was startled awake by an extraordinarily humongous noise. Quite clearly there was an enormous jet plane in trouble and it was heading directly towards us. The sound was earth shattering and Gnome quivered in fear. This was it. This was the end. There was no possible escape. There was no possible place for a plane to land except directly on top of us.
Amazingly the plane missed us by... er... shit. It wasn’t a plane, it was a bloody TGV (ultra high speed train) flying past us at immense speed. I nearly wet my pyjamas that I wasn’t wearing. As it disappeared into the far distance, we wept in relief and attempted to revisit dreamland. Just as we were nearly there, another plane attempted to land on our roof.
It was not a good night...
We had intended staying there two nights. No chance matey. We dragged ourselves out of bed with heads in a state of disrepair. We were to visit the Chateau de Chenonceau.
We were to discover a superb chateau.
We were to discover why the attempts of the French government to stem the tide of the pandemic were doomed to failure.
The Gnome is often a good way of keeping our distance, but visiting places such as this chateau opens us up to potential harm. We were alert to all risks, but I had not expected to see so many people as we did here.
Despite the rain, despite the time of year, despite the dreaded plague, this place was bustling. It turns out that this is the most visited chateau in France after Versailles. I suspect that it has always been busy in its history as it seems to have been inhabited by royal mistresses and wives of absent lords for most of its time. It's difficult to think of it being anything other than a high-classed whorehouse.
The entry to the estate was well organised. No close contact, no touching, no tongues. All quite impressive. Our first stop was the stables. No, not to stable the Gnome...
Part of the stables is now a cafe. They were well prepared. Customers had to give their details incase tracing would be necessary, and numbers were kept low by the excruciating cost of their food and drink.
As there were clearly going to be rather too many humanoids pouring directly into the chateau, we delayed a little by wandering around the impressive gardens. Now, as you may be aware, I have a penchant for gardens, having dedicated most of my waking hours to mine own.
 |
| The Chancellory in the Gardens. |
The more that I look at the history of France the more fornication I discover. And we thought Boris Johnson was the first stupid fucker to rule a country.
As the numbers of other tourists reduced, and as the heavens above threatened more rain upon us, we decided that it was time to enter the chateau itself.
You may note a note of reluctance. Noted. I had an uncomfortable gut-feeling about this. Perhaps I should listen to my gut more often.
Hmm. Perhaps not.
I was picking up perturbing vibes. There is, in this humble abode’s history, more than one 'disturbing' era. At the time Henry III was assassinated, his wife (Louise of Lorraine) was here. He had been killed by a fanatical priest, (as opposed to the other kind) who was pretending to have a secret message for him. He leaned forward to whisper his message and plunged a knife into his guts. Guts play a big part in this story.
Louise stayed here in Chenonceaux, wandering the lonely halls for eleven years until she finally died of grief, or maybe too much wandering.
The walls were hung with tapestries depicting skulls, crosses, bones, and other amusing motifs. She wore white, as was the custom then for grieving wives.
She was called the White Queen.
Maybe her ghost was there still, warning me to keep out. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave...
It was not long before a pressing sense of acrophobia came upon us both. Despite a vain and frankly insufficient attempt at guiding visitors in one direction, it proved utterly impossible to keep safe distance. The guts of this chateau are simply too small for the numerous visitors it ingests. We were constantly trying to avoid contact with others. We found ourselves holding our breath as we passed others on narrow spiral staircases. We felt a pressing need to get out. We sped through the kitchens, raced through the ball room, glanced at the bedrooms. I had lost control. I was but a pawn being sacrificed in a giant game of chess.
Get out.
Let us out.
And then.....
Trapped.
We passed through a door into a small room. A small room with only that one door. A small room filling with people. Hot, sweaty, virus filled people. The only door was too narrow to escape through. More and more people were trying to force their way in.
“It’s too full in here! Wait for us to get out!”
“We want to see it too! We have the right to get in! We have the right!”
Visions of Auschwitz flashed through my head.
“LET ME OUT!”
We left the chateau fleet of foot. As I glanced back, I felt sure that I could see the White Queen, smirking at us like a demented Priti Patel, from an upstairs window. Check mate.
We were not alone. This exact spot was where many tried to escape the clutches of the nazis during the Second World War. This river, Le Cher, separated occupied France from Vichy France.
Kinda spooky huh?
We had escaped the clutches of the White Queen. The castle’s beauty had, for us, been checked, but not mated.
This immense building has housed many a maiden. Some were bone fide wives, some were ‘a bit on the side’, but over all of them was a controlling male. Constructing a house this huge is the super-rich way of willy-waggling. Most of us have to make do with having a better car than you. Or, I don't know, a bigger willy?
On leaving the house of ill repute, we took another tour of the gardens..
Remarkably few willies were seen, but I did stumble across a rather strange fish with serious abdominal problems.
It was time to leave this beautiful but contradictory chateau. The contrast between its highly controlled, safe entry system and its attempt at being a super-spreading event was telling. I’m not certain that the Health and Safety Inspectorate would have been happy with the explanation that the chateau was built too long ago to have to comply with regs. I'm not sure that H&S exists even now in France, there doesn't even appear to be a word for 'safe'. A reckless lot the French...
For any chance of a night’s sleep, we had to leave the train station come landing strip next to Chenonceaux well behind us, thus once again our plan needed tinkering with.
We were to stop overnight in a village called Montrésor.
Chapter 11: Montrésor
Montrésor, French for 'My Treasure'.
...
We all have our plans don’t we? Plan for now or plan for our future? It’s a gamble either way. I had long planned around a retirement of freedom to travel, to seek out new life and new civilisations, to boldly go where no man has gone before
Well, it hasn’t quite worked out like that has it?
Here in France, as write this, we learn of our future fate. The lockdown is to ease in five days, but oh so slightly. For us we will see little difference for three months.
Three months.
How did we get this far apart?
We used to be so close together.
How did we get this far apart?
I thought this love would last forever.
I’m starting to hear the Cure in my head. Insanity beckons...
The Gnome will hibernate until further notice. My humble apologies to those who had hoped for further enlightening and entertaining blogs.
Now I hear cries of joy in my head.
These memories of this last gnome-trek have just become significantly more important. It is to be our last for a long time. So let me savour it for a moment longer...
Thank you.
...
The sky was grey and the air was wet when we arrived in Montrésor. We were being followed by moody meteorology.
To spite it, we took time to have a quick look around in the damp dusk, deciding to explore further the following morning. We stopped off at the local tourist information to discuss the next day's magical mystery tour. We decided upon two further stops, two beautiful and photogenic villages before finally arriving back at chez nous.
There was no hurry.
Or so we thought.
As we looked around the moist village, we felt the wings of fate folding themselves around us.
That night, all was to change.
Sheltering from the weather, the Gnome kept us warm and well fed. Ok, I did have to help on the feeding front, but we had taken with us plentiful supplies of curry spices, Nan bread and poppadoms. Heaven inside a Gnome.
We settled down for an evening of calm and relaxation, recovering from the turbulent week behind us. As we did so, news gradually filtered through to us. Our turbulent time had not finished. Macron had spoken. France was about to go, once more, into total lockdown.
Fate had its wings around our throats.
Our tranquil return from a week of twists and turns, had one final turn of the screw. A spanner had been well and truly thrown into our innermost works.
Other useful hand tools are available....
...
After yesterday’s rather depressing news from France (my apologies for that) today has turned out to be much more upbeat. Several bits of good news have come my way, including the news that some of Annick’s family are coming to help us out the first week of next January (thank you soooo much Jean-Ro & Maïté).
The bad news is that this means that there may be another Gnome-Trek blog coming to you before you know it!
Anyway, on with the story...
...
Back in Montrésor, time was tight. The total lockdown of France was to start in less than two days. We had to return early so that our brave family (Jean-Blaise & Jacqueline), entrusted with my elderly loved one (no, not Annick) could return to Paris before the axe fell.
This trip has certainly been full of ups and downs, highs and lows. So much so that I could even write a blog about it. Frankly, I could have done without the low bits. I mean, come on, did they really have to happen? It had passed through my mind that perhaps there was someone up there who had a personal grudge against me. Not that I subscribe to that kind of nonsense, but it makes you think doesn’t it? I mean, what if there was some kind of supreme being up there? With bugger all going on on our remote planet, he’d be bound to pick me out personally for retribution wouldn’t he? Sod the starving children, pants to the pandemic, bollocks to Brexit, let me concentrate my malevolence upon this puny excuse of a human being.
Of course, the other alternative is to persuade the gullible to spend their hard-earned dosh on things like this, the Church of St John the Baptist. Money well spent...
Here’s an interesting thing. Montrésor, the last stop on our tortured path, was the home of several exiles from Poland in the nineteenth century. They did the place up nice as was their want. They were fully accepted into the local community, in exactly the opposite way that we accept exiles in the good old UK. There, we tend not to call them persecuted exiles. We tend to call them bloody foreigners. The fact that the average UK citizen is descended from bloody foreigners seems to have passed us by.
Below is the old Keep, the original Chateau de Montrésor. It was built around a thousand years ago and is starting to show its age. The house in front did not attempt to match styles.
It does kind of make the house look like it has a power station built on its back.
About 400 years later (doesn’t time fly) a new chateau was built inside the walls of the keep. This castle was to be the last thing we had time to visit before heading home into lockdown.
...
It was our last day on this Gnome-Trek, and this the penultimate post for a rather over-extended episode. But I've kept my promise. Tomorrow is the last official day of the second French pandemic lockdown, and I've managed to stretch out our journey long enough to cover every day of said lockdown. And honestly? The story told was pretty damn close to that which happened. A journey there and back again, a journey covering most emotional states. And through it all came the Gnome. The Gnome victorious. The rest of us; bleedin' shattered...
...
Back in Montrésor...
This is classified as one of the most beautiful villages in France. Clearly this was at the top of Henry II of England's mind when he took it over, only to give it up to King Philip of France. (Not me.) Legend has it that King Gontran discovered gold here by following a lizard. As one does. Thus it's called Montrésor and, surprisingly, not called Monlézard....
The new mansion pictured here was built many years later, when there wasn't quite so much squabbling over territory between the monarchs. We really are much better of without them you know. Vive la République!
There was one sign of real civilisation however. A billiard table. This may have been too small, and certainly was missing a few holes let alone some colourful balls, it did however remind me of home. Somewhere we'd better get to bloody pronto!
And thus we mounted our Gnome and headed west into the sunset. Well, it was early afternoon actually. And south...
Then, magically, just a few short hours later, we found ourselves in the epilogue...
Epilogue.
As I am writing this we are about to end lockdown, and enter a period of, well, lockdown by any other name. The last thirty days have been one of routine, with the occasional highlight of writing this blog. And I'm sure that it is the highlight of your day too.
Welcome to the sad club.
So let's catch up. So much has happened in our ten days away (is that all?) that I fear I may have left a few loose ends around. So here is a summary plus missing bits...
We managed to get to Bristol and back without catching or transmitting any fatal diseases. As far as I'm aware...
We managed to see all the family there and did some mildly illegal things...
Jon couldn't come back with us but will hopefully be coming here soon. We simply haven't quite figured out how as yet. Travel is still prohibited on pain of removal of several sensitive bits.
Luke, the Elf and the Elfling survived our visit and her father is recovering well. They are still in lockdown and gradually going insane. No change there then.
Lisa and Sienna got back to Wales without arrest to enjoy their 'circuit break'. Such fun.
The Gnome got us there, got us back, and did all the bits in-between. What a hero.
Our house was not destroyed in our absence although all the caramels have gone.
I have received psychological support for the coffee deficit.
All the animals are fine and apparently didn't notice our absence.
France seems to be coping well without kings and queens.
Today I received a letter from the British government outlining all the rights that they have forcibly taken from me against my wishes. I've tried stabbing it with a knife but it doesn't seem to help...
Finally, I've spent some time on my return getting everything ready for all my wonderful friends and family. That may well include you. SO WHERE ARE YOU???
Seriously guys, missing you all and hope to see you soonest. Thanks for reading this far. You are a star and almost certainly completely on your own. Please get help soon.
La Fin.
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